Under Attack

Chapter Seven

The sun was slipping behind the fog when I got into my car and headed home. I was still annoyed with Alex and the prospect of finding—and facing—my father weighed heavily on me. I tried to erase it from my mind, or to call up images of all those wonderful father-daughter reunions on the Maury Povich Show and from Disney movies, but nothing helped. By the time I pulled into my designated parking space I was jumpy and grumpy.

I was reaching for my bag when a gentle tap-tap got my attention.

“Christ, Grandma, you scared the—”

Grandma narrowed her eyes, staring out at me from my rearview mirror. “Language, Sophie.”

“You scared me. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk some sense into you.”

I raised my eyebrows and slumped back into my car seat. “Yeah?” The lady in the mirror was going to talk some sense into me? I didn’t know what was more nonsensical: Grandma showing up in my rearview mirror or me holding a conversation with her.

“Word around town is that you’re going to go looking for your father.”

“Word around town? Like, word in Heaven?” I whistled. “Sheesh, news travels fast up there.”

Grandma shrugged. “You can only play a harp for so many hours each day.”

“I guess.”

“Sophie, dear, don’t go looking for your father. It won’t help.”

“What do you know about my father?” I asked, feeling a familiar prick up the back of my neck. “If you know something, you should tell me.”

“I know enough about him to know that you should steer clear of him.”

“Grandma ...”

“Look,” Grandma said, “I’m not going to tell you what to do, honey, but listen to me: Don’t try to find him. It’s not worth it. Trust me on this.”

“So much for not telling me what to do.”

Grandmother’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t sass me, young lady. Mark my words: Your father is only going to let you down.” Grandma’s voice softened, and there was a moist wistfulness in her milky eyes. “Just like he let your mother down.”

“Grandma, don’t I deserve to know my father? At the very least, just to know a few things about him? Why would that be such a bad thing?”

Grandma sucked on her teeth and shook her head, her long dangly earrings jangling against her jawbone.

“I just need to know a few things about myself.”

“Like what?” my grandmother huffed. “I can tell you everything you need to know. You learned to ride a bike when you were seven. You’re a rubbish card player, you come from good Hungarian stock, and you have a weakness for anything with marshmallow in it.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Grandma relented, her shoulders noticeably sagging. “If you’re going to look for your father, you need to be prepared for what you find.”

I felt my shoulders stiffen. “Like what? What am I going to find out about him? You’re not telling me anything about him. No one is!”

“Even if I wanted to tell you about him—which I don’t—I couldn’t.” Grandma looked around, her eyes checking the corners of my rearview mirror. “It’s not something I can just talk about all willy-nilly out here.”

I was getting frustrated. “What can’t you talk about?”

My grandmother pursed her lips in an expression that tugged at my heart. I had seen it before whenever she was trying to protect me from something she didn’t think I could handle.

“I can handle whatever you tell me, Gram. And isn’t it better for me to find out things from you rather than on my own?”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” Grandma said. “I’m sorry, honey, but I just can’t.”

“Gram? Gram!” I peered into the mirror, my own squinting eyes reflecting back at me.

I got out of the car feeling deflated, the frustrated, grumpy feeling still around me. I walked the entire way to my walk-up looking behind me and jumping at every little sound.

I pushed open my apartment door and stood in the foyer, looking around anxiously. “Hello?” I called out, reminding myself of every character ever killed in horror movies. “Anybody home?”

When no one answered me, I dumped my shoulder bag onto the couch and then flopped there myself, letting my heartbeat slow to a normal, non-frenetic pace.

I almost swallowed my tongue when I heard the knock on my door.

“Son of a—!” I cursed, rolling off the couch and heading for the door. I popped the chain and inched the door open.

“Sophie Lawson?”

Her eyes were impossibly pale and lined with huge, delicate lashes that cast spiderweb shadows across her ruddy pink cheeks.

“Ophelia,” I whispered, without opening the door any wider.

Ophelia’s pink lips split into a delighted sweet smile, and she bobbed her shoulders in that cute, sorority-girl way that I couldn’t get away with. The movement left the faint scent of her freesia perfume on the air. “You know me!”

I stood there, dumbfounded, trying to work out a plan in my head: let her in, try and talk? I chanced a quick second glance at her through the two-inch gap in the doorway: tall, blond, primly dressed in a melon-colored twin set and pencil skirt, a strand of glazed pearls demurely wrapped around her neck. She looked more like a PTA mom than a crazed supernatural killer.

Then I thought of Alex, his stern eyes and the hard set of his jawline as he warned about Ophelia. Maybe I should slam the door and take off running? I was seriously considering the latter when there was a splitting smack against my cheek. A piercing heat starburst through my nose, up against my forehead. I reeled backward, stumbling into my living room, my eyes watering from the sting. I blinked rapidly and the tears tumbled down my cheeks as I pressed my fingers against the mashed-in spot where my nose once was. Now it stung and started to tickle as the blood came.

Ophelia’s eyes still looked wide and innocent; there wasn’t a wrinkle or a shard of splintered wood on her twin set, and her pearls had barely moved.

I gaped at Ophelia as she stood in my foyer, arms crossed in front of her, a delicate purse hanging from her pinkie.

My front door hung limply from its hinges just over her left shoulder. I was so not going to get my security deposit back.

“I was going to let you in, you know,” I said, my hand massaging a new hot spot on my cheek.

Ophelia shrugged. “Patience is a virtue.” Her eyes narrowed and sparkled with something that sent a cold chill down my spine. “And I’m not very virtuous. Now come on.” She held out her hand, palm up, fingers beckoning. “I don’t have all day. And frankly”—she looked around my apartment distastefully—“your decorating is giving me hives.”

I crossed my own arms in front of my chest and widened my stance, determined to stare her down. I heard a high-pitched giggle reverberate through my head and then Ophelia’s rich voice. Cute, I heard her say—although her lips stayed pressed together in a pale pink line. You think you can stand up to me?

“Don’t do that,” I said, my teeth gritted.

“Do what?” she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently.

A second tinkle of laughter swept through my head. I wanted to clench my eyes shut, but I knew better than to take my gaze off Ophelia.

“Stop.”

“Then give me what I want.”

“I don’t—” Before I could finish my sentence, my thought, Ophelia was nose to nose with me and then her hands were on my chest, shoving me hard. I was off balance, reeling backward, groaning when I felt my back make contact with the floor, my head thumping against the carpet. “Oaf !”

“Don’t screw with me!” she snarled, advancing toward me.

I yelped when Ophelia’s foot made contact with my thigh and a wallop of pain ached through me.

She lunged for me again and I rolled out of her way, but not before her hand grazed the top of my head, her fingernails raking through my hair. I howled and turned instinctively, and was surprised when I felt the back of my hand make contact with Ophelia’s cheek. There was a satisfying crack and I retrieved my stinging hand.

We both stood looking at each other in stunned silence—her rubbing her reddening cheek, me rubbing my new bald spot. She lunged for me again, barely missing me as I crab-crawled to the bookshelf and used it to pull myself up, the ache in my leg tightening like a fist. I used the back of my arm to swipe at my nose, and my stomach lurched when I saw the bright red ribbon of blood on my arm. Other people’s blood never bothered me that much, but my own was a different story. I felt woozy and Ophelia seemed to know it, her face breaking into a satisfied half-smile.

“This could go so much more smoothly, you know,” she said, picking up a lamp and smashing it on the coffee table Van Damme style. She held the broken shards to me, her baby pink lips distorted into a gruesome snarl. “Give it!”

I shrunk against the bookcase, feeling the wood pressing against my shoulders. Ophelia held the jagged glass edge of the lamp against my neck, pressing the tines in for effect. I winced as I felt them cut my skin.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I wailed, my head feeling tender and raw. “The Vessel. I know you want the Vessel.” I took a deep breath that made my bruised chest scream with pain and carefully, solemnly slid a pale green milk-glass vase from the lower shelf. I discreetly upturned it and brushed away the parade of crumpled gum wrappers that lived inside of it and then turned around, cuddling the dollar-ninety-nine IKEA vase to my chest reverently.

“Okay, Ophelia. You win.” With shaking hands I held the vase out to Ophelia, who stared at it, wide-eyed, wanting. “Here is the Vessel of Souls.”

Ophelia raised one sculpted eyebrow and jabbed at the air in front of her. “That?”

I nodded. “Yes, this. The angels often charm things so they can be hidden—”

“In plain sight, blah, blah, blah.” Ophelia finished. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

I licked my dry lips. “Of course. So, here it is. You win, fair and square.”

Ophelia reached out and smacked the vase with the back of her hand, sending it hurtling to the ground, crashing against the hardwood floor. Thick shards of pale green glass splintered in all directions; the one that held the dollar ninety-nine IKEA price tag skidded toward me and landed a quarter-inch from my sneaker.

We heard the gentle ahhhh of souls ascending to Heaven.

Ophelia stamped her foot, one hand on her hip. “Stop that!”

I snapped my mouth shut and the wailing ahhh stopped. Then Ophelia smiled. A grotesque smile of delight that twisted her normally lovely features into something awful.

You really don’t know, do you? Her voice was in my head again.

“Don’t know what?” I snarled out loud. “And stop with the head talk!”

“Sophie!”

I cut my eyes to our front door hanging askew, anchored by a single hinge. Nina flung it open and the bent hinge gave way, the door flopping to the ground.

“You stay the hell away from her!” Nina screamed, her dark eyes fierce and intent on Ophelia.

“Oh, wow.” Ophelia glanced from me to Nina. “And her toothy pal comes to the rescue. If only you knew what you were guarding.”

Nina was between Ophelia and me in a heartbeat, standing nose to nose with Ophelia, the jagged piece of lamp hanging limply at her side. “Don’t you have a harp to strum?” Nina spat from between gritted teeth.

Ophelia wrinkled her nose. “A harp, that’s cute.” She narrowed her eyes and elbowed Nina hard in the chest, sending her skittering to the ground. Nina landed on her back with a thud. I tried to lunge to Nina, but Ophelia clamped her hand on my shoulder. I heard myself cry out as her fingers dug into my muscle, forming heat against my skin.

A low growl escaped from Nina’s chest and she flung herself against Ophelia, who deftly stepped aside, taking me with her.

“Knock, knock!”

We all seemed to freeze, openmouthed and panicked, as we looked at Mr. Matsura, who stood in the doorway, his wrinkled lips turned up in a quizzical smile.

Mr. Matsura lived across the hall in an afghan-festooned apartment that was stuck in 1952. He wore a cardigan sweater over his button-up shirt and neatly pressed slacks with his house slippers when he went out at dawn and at dusk for his daily walks. In the waking hours in between, he ate takeout and watched the game-show channel, the volume turned up to an ungodly level. I credit my ability to correctly guess the prices of a catamaran, a set of Calphalon pans, and an electric skillet to his faulty hearing aid.

He let out a low whistle as he slid his palm over the cracked door frame. “Looks like someone did some damage here.”

Mr. Matsura looked like a smiling beacon of hope—or the next victim in Ophelia’s domestic destruction.

Without loosening her grip on me, Ophelia grinned, her smile dazzling and welcoming even as her fingertips continued to burrow into my shoulder. “And you are?”

Mr. Matsura jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Neighbor. Right across the hall.”

My heart started to beat again and the blood was returning to my extremities. Nina was pushing herself up from the floor and Ophelia snaked her arm across my shoulders, making our threesome look more like a group of overzealous girlfriends than a battle for the fate of the humankind.

“We just got a little out of control,” Ophelia said, sweet innocence dripping from her voice. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

Mr. Matsura opened his mouth to speak, his hand gesturing toward the broken door.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Ophelia said again, this time slowly, her crystal-blue eyes focused hard on Mr. Matsura’s. He closed his mouth and nodded, his eyes taking on a dull, vacant glaze. He turned slowly and disappeared into his own apartment.

“How did you—”

“Shut up,” Ophelia hissed. She frowned. “That really harshed my buzz.”

Ophelia loosened her grip on me, and I shrugged away, trying to rub some feeling back into my shoulder.

Nina gaped. “Your buzz?”

Ophelia narrowed her eyes and they glittered a sinister blue. “Violence makes me giddy.” She shoved her way between Nina and me and stepped backward, heading toward the front door, the crumbles of our vase and shards of splintered door frame rustling under her feet. She hung in our broken doorway, her hands on what remained of the frame.

“Well, you know what they say about three being a crowd. Nina, it was just precious to meet you in person. Sophie, you and I will pick this up later.”

And I can hardly wait for that. Ophelia’s voice rang in my brain, her eyes brimming with intent and focused hard on me.

Once Ophelia disappeared out the front door Nina rushed to me, gathering me in her arms and crushing me against her cold, marble chest. “Oaf,” I groaned, feeling the bruise from Ophelia’s push.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nina said, pushing away from me. “Are you hurt? Did she get the Vessel?” Her dark eyes traveled to the shards of broken milk glass on the floor. “Was that it?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I’m fine.” I massaged my chest. “Mostly. And no, that’s not the Vessel.”

Nina crouched down, gathering up the glass pieces. “Well, that’s good.” She picked up a piece, scrutinized it. “I’d hate to think that God shopped at IKEA.” She brushed the rest of the glass into her bloodless palm and dumped it into the trash in the kitchen. “So you’re okay?”

“I will be.” I went to the kitchen for a wet rag and caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror: bald spot slightly visible, black marks already starting to blossom under each eye, blood caking and starting to dry at the corner of my mouth. I checked my neck and groaned at the constellation of tiny bloody pricks there and Nina came up behind me, frowning.

“Wow, she really got you good. Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you something—a Band-Aid, a transfusion ?”

I wet a rag and pressed it against my neck, then gingerly laid a package of frozen corn across my head. The sting of the cold seemed to counteract the sting of my lack of hair.

I slumped onto the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. “Now I’m just confused.”

“Confused?” Nina brushed her hands on her skirt and pulled a second package of frozen vegetables from the freezer. She sat down next to me on the couch and carefully laid the bag on the purple handprints peeking out of my shirt. “About what?”

“Ophelia.” I pressed the frozen peas to my chest, held the corn against my head.

“She’s a class-one nutter. What’s there to be confused about?”

“When I handed her the vase—which I tried to pass off as the Vessel—”

Nina grinned. “Nice strategy.”

“Thanks. Anyway, she knew right away that that wasn’t it.”

“So Ophelia knows what the Vessel looks like.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “But then she seemed almost amused. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Why does everyone seem to think that I know something I don’t, or that I don’t need to know something I should? Or you know, maybe should.”

Nina shrugged her small shoulders.

“It wasn’t even what she said was so weird. It was the way she said it. It was like I was a piece of meat. It was weird.” I shuddered. “Gave me the heebie jeebies.”

“Well, didn’t the fallen angels used to drink the blood and eat the flesh of man? So, maybe you were, like, dinner?” Nina grinned triumphantly.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Not that I’ve ever thought of you that way.”

“I know. But it wasn’t hungry-like; it was ... appraising, almost.”

Nina looked thoughtful. “Well, Alex said the Vessel could be anything or anywhere. Maybe you do have it and you don’t even know it. Maybe it is here.”

I looked around the apartment. “You said yourself you don’t think God shops at IKEA. That doesn’t leave much else around here.”

Nina sprang up from the couch and walked toward the bookcase. “Maybe it’s this.” She held up a porcelain elephant with gold tusks.

“Doubt it. My college boyfriend gave me that.”

She studied the figurine, then dumped it into the trashcan. “It’s definitely time to let go of that one. What if it’s this?” Nina snatched up a tattered copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. “Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”

I stood up and took the paperback from Nina, returning it to its spot on the shelf. “No.” I glanced at everything on the bookshelf, my hands on my hips. “I can’t imagine it’s anything here. And most of this stuff I’ve had forever or picked up randomly along the way. I would think that the Vessel of Souls would have come into my possession in a more regal way—not from an old boyfriend or from the used bookstore.”

“So IKEA is out then?”

“Wow,” Alex said from the hallway as he gingerly stepped over our crumbled front door. “Did I forget to tell you that you put the key in and then turn the knob?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ophelia was here.”

“Ophelia?” Alex’s eyes widened and he came inside, setting his slick leather jacket on the table. He crossed the living room in one swoop and rested his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you at all?”

“Did she hurt me at all?” I pointed to my mask of bruises. “I look like a prizefighter. Who lost.” The frozen corn slid from my head and thunked on the floor.

“You dropped your corn,” Alex said, pointing at it. “Really, Lawson, are you going to be okay? Should we take you to the emergency room?”

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m okay.”

Alex pulled me against him and I melted into his warm chest, shivered as I felt his strong arms slide across my back, encircling me, protecting me, melting the bag of frozen peas between us. “I couldn’t stand it if she hurt one hair on your head.”

“Well,” Nina said from over Alex’s left shoulder. “She hurt our vase. Where have you been? We could have been dead! Or, you know, dead ... er. Don’t forget, you brought that psychopath into our lives.”

Alex ignored Nina, and held me at arm’s length, his cobalt eyes intense and locked on mine. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. “I’m okay.” For the first time I noticed that Alex was dressed in dark jeans cinched with an expensive-looking brown leather belt. He was wearing a butter-soft deep green cashmere sweater that V’ed at the neck, a bit of his white T-shirt peeking out from underneath. The thin sweater was formfitting, and hugged the muscles across his chest and broad shoulders in all the right places. His hair—a usual jumble of chocolaty dark curls that spilled this way and that—was brushed back and gelled.

“You gelled?”

A flush of crimson went across Alex’s cheeks as he reached a hand up to pat his hair. “It’s stupid. I—”

“No, it looks nice. You look nice. Why do you look so—?” I slammed my mouth shut, knowing flooding over me.

My date. My big date.

Alex’s smile was polite. “You forgot?”

Nina stepped in between us. “Yes, she forgot. Can you blame her? She’s been tenderized by hurricane Ophelia!”

Alex looked pained and gingerly tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Does it hurt much?”

I rubbed the sore spot on my cheek. “I told you, it’s fine. It looks worse than it is. I’m pale; I bruise easily.”

“I would feel better if you were protected.”

“Like with a bodyguard?” I nodded toward Nina. “I’ve already got a vampire.”

Nina put her hands on her hips. “So that’s why you keep me around?”

“Geez! And you say my friends are messy!” We all swung to look as Vlad stood in the doorway, his calf-length velvet coat swirling in a nonexistent breeze, his jacquard ascot puffed against his silk vest.

“Sophie got attacked,” Nina filled him in.

Vlad frowned. “Wow! You look terrible.”

“Yeah, but you should see what the other guy looks like,” I joked.

Nina’s eyes were wide. “Yeah, she’s really pretty. I love her hair.”

I tried to glare, but my face was sore. “Geez, sorry,” Nina said, threading her arm through Vlad’s. “Come on.” She dragged Vlad toward her room. “You’re helping me organize.”

Alex leaned in toward me. “Do you still have the gun I got you?”

In Alex and my previous relationship incarnation, I found myself the victim of things going bump in the night. Alex’s gift of a lethal weapon wasn’t just romantic, it was practical.

Still, I would have preferred chocolates.

“Yeah, I still have it.”

“Somewhere close by?”

I went to the kitchen and retrieved the gun from its special hiding place in the junk drawer. The slick, black .357 Magnum kept my packets of takeout soy sauce, bubble gum, and twist ties safe.

Alex took the gun and released the magazine. “It’s not loaded. Do you still have any bullets?”

I dutifully went to the freezer and scooped a handful of silver-tipped bullets from their hiding place in an ancient box of Skinny Cow ice cream bars—ice cream bars having been eaten to make room for bullets. From the exasperated look on Alex’s face as I dumped the frozen ammo into his palm, I figured it was best to keep to myself the fact that I had, on occasion, used the butt of the gun for some light fix-it projects around the house.

Alex frowned down at the butt of the gun, picking at something white stuck into the grooves with his fingernail. “Is that plaster?”

“Either that or the sugar coating from the bubble gum in the junk drawer,” I said. And then, noticing the sheer annoyance marching across Alex’s face, “I don’t know. It’s your gun.” I batted my eyelashes attractively before Alex had the chance to roll his eyes.

“You know what,” he said, putting the gun aside, “we’ll deal with firepower later. We have a game to get to. Are you still up for it?”

I slapped my palm to my forehead—then winced. “That’s right! My Giants!”

Alex held out a hand. “We don’t have to go.”

“The hell we don’t!” I jumped up and tried to mask the sharp pain I felt by pasting on a home-team grin. Then I looked at Alex and frowned. “You can’t go like that.”

Alex looked down at himself. “Like what?”

“Like—” I struggled for the right word. Like “every fantasy I’ve ever had” didn’t seem to cut it. Instead, I grabbed his hand and dragged him toward my room. “Come on, let’s get you set.”

I rummaged through my pajama drawer and grinned, triumphantly holding out a Barry Bonds commemorative T-shirt. “Here, put this on. Just—”

My eyes widened and my mouth went dry as Alex dutifully slipped off his sweater, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath that hugged his firm chest appreciatively.

“Don’t—”

He whipped off the T-shirt next and I was left staring dumbfounded and openmouthed at his smooth chest, his muscles like perfect stair steps down his abdomen. I commanded myself to tear my eyes away but was drawn to his sun-kissed contours like a moth to a flame. He slipped the Barry Bonds T-shirt over his head and grinned at me, caught ogling.

“What was that?”

“Uh, just don’t ... get mustard on it.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“How do I look?”

Yummy! I wanted to scream. I bit my lip. “Needs something. Oh, wait.” I turned to my closet, rooted around a bit, and turned, sliding a giant orange foam finger onto Alex’s left hand. “Perfect!”

Alex looked at the enormous finger, shook it. “You know, I was going to wear this, but I thought, nah, too formal for a first date.”

The word “date” tumbling off his lips gave my heart a little shudder. Normal people went on dates, and normal girls got kisses at the end of their dates. I snuck a glance at Alex’s full lips and licked my own.

“Come on,” I said, dragging him out the front door by his normal-sized hand.

There was already a heavy mist on the air when we hit the sidewalk. Alex jingled his keys and I raised my eyebrows.

“What are you planning on doing with those?”

“I was planning on driving with them.”

I shook my head, took his keys, and deposited them in my purse. He stared at his open palm when I laid a dollar bill in it.

“What’s this for?”

“Muni. No one drives to the ballpark.” I grabbed his sleeve and started tugging. “Come on, the five will be here any minute.”

We fed our dollars into the machine and collected our tickets while the bus driver gave us both a broad smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up. We edged our way down the crowded bus aisle, angled ourselves between the sea of orange and black–clad revelers. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, jostling toward the ballpark, I felt happily normal—scratches, black eye, and visit from one pissed-off angel aside. I looked around and felt as one with my city mates—even though my companion was technically dead. Alex’s knee thumped against mine, and he smiled, rubbing his hand over my knee, sending shivers up my spine, making every one of my hormones stand at attention.

Maybe today wouldn’t be the crappiest one in recent memory.

Forty-five minutes later we were seated behind home plate, balancing overpriced beers and trough-sized baskets of garlic fries on our knees. Alex held both our hot dogs in one hand and sipped at his beer while I arranged my jacket and beckoned for the peanut guy as he made his way down the aisle.

“Peanuts, too? When was the last time you ate?”

“It’s not a matter of hunger,” I reported, fishing some bills out of my back pocket. “It’s all about the ballpark experience.”

Alex got the peanut guy’s attention and pushed my money aside, shelling out for two warm bags of nuts. “Okay, do we have everything?”

I took my hot dog from his hand and took a big bite, nodding happily. “Let’s play ball!” I said with a mouthful.

Alex grinned and wiped away a smear of mustard from my chin. I blushed with his touch, blushed when his eyes held mine a moment too long.

Nine innings later we were covered in a fine spray of ocean mist and flushed with the excitement of a tight win. We both oozed garlic and mustard and as we wound through the horde of slow-moving Giants fans, Alex reached out and took my hand, pulling me close against him. His chest was warm and deliciously firm, and I could smell his comforting cocoa scent tinged with a touch of fabric softener and stadium mustard as I leaned against him.

“So, you like baseball?”

He looked down at me, his cobalt eyes bright in the stadium lights, and pulled me closer. “I love it.”

I swallowed hard as my mouth watered and my mind was littered with unmentionable things; I felt the pressure on my cheeks from what must have been a four-hour grin.

“Me, too.”

It was a hike back to the connecting bus stop and rather than take a cab, we strolled hand in hand in the mist, walking along the deserted streets when suddenly Alex stiffened. I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten, his lips tense. “Did you hear that?”

I cocked my head to one side, listening to the night sounds of the city: the mournful wail of a police siren, the buzz of the yellow streetlight above us.

“Hear what?”

Alex whirled around and I felt a spike of fear start at the base of my spine and prick its way up. My saliva went sour. “I heard that.”

It was the raspy sound of sneakers on concrete coming to an abrupt stop. The sound of heavy breathing—distinct, though barely audible on the late-night breeze.

“Maybe it’s just—”

My words were cut off by the sound of a blade slicing through the air. I felt a body make contact with mine; then the wind as it left my chest when I made contact with the cold, damp concrete. I only knew Alex had been hit when I heard the strangled sound of his groan.

“Sophie, run!”

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion and Alex’s command didn’t even sound like him. It was higher, more menacing, and I kicked my feet, sliding on the concrete until I got some traction, then stopped dead, seeing the dark figure in front of Alex.

Our attacker was dressed entirely in black and stood a half-head taller than Alex, his face obscured by a black knit ski mask that only revealed sinister hooded eyes that remained fixed on us. He held his blade aloft once more and I heard my own scream when I saw the blood—Alex’s blood—dripping from the cold steel.

The man dove forward, his body colliding with Alex’s with a stomach-churning thud, the blade hacking at the air just behind Alex’s left ear. I tried to grab at the assailant, to push away his knife and when Alex got the upper hand I did the only thing I could think of. Within seconds I had my arms around our attacker’s neck, my legs flailing wildly as I rode his back. His non-knife hand pulled back to grab at me and I gripped it, and bit down as hard as I could on the fleshy web between his forefinger and thumb. He howled, hunched, and launched me forward. I rammed into Alex’s chest and he caught me, sloppily, both of us going down to the concrete and rolling apart. The wail of a police siren sounded somewhere in the distance and droned until it was closer; by the time I looked up, our attacker was long gone.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked breathily.

“I’m fine but you’re—” I gaped at the red velvet blood that rippled through his fingers as he clutched his shoulder. “You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” I sprang to my feet and sprinted into the middle of the street, flailing my arms wildly at no one.

“Where is everyone? This is an emergency! We need a doctor! We need an ambulance!” I rolled up on my tiptoes as though the extra half inch would allow me to see over the building tops. “What happened to the police siren?”

Alex lumbered up and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine; it’s nothing. It’s just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” I could smell the metallic scent of his blood and it made me slightly woozy. “We’ve got to do something! You could lose that arm!” I patted myself. “Oh! Cell phone!”

“It’s fine.”

Before I could steady my shaking fingers enough to dial, I saw Alex use his good arm to flag down a couple of orbs of white light coming from the dark alley. I felt a little splinter of joy. A cab! We’re saved!

The yellow cab stopped in the middle of the street in front of us. I hustled Alex inside and half climbed over the front seat. “SF General and step on it! We’ve just been mugged.” I sat back on the bench seat as the cabbie sped off. “We were mugged, right?”

Alex, still holding his shoulder, shrugged, then winced. “He didn’t ask for my wallet. But I lost your foam finger.” He looked apologetic and I used both my hands against his chest to push him against the seat. “Don’t talk. Relax. We’ll get you another foam finger. You’ve just got to live!” I searched frantically in my purse.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for something to make a tourniquet. We’ve got to stop the bleeding. I’m not going to let you bleed out in the back of this godforsaken cab.” I leaned back over the front seat. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

I could feel the sweat bead out at my hairline and above my upper lip as I wrung my hands and looked out the front windshield. “Can’t you go any faster?”

When I turned back to Alex, he was grinning.

“What?”

“You. I’m fine, really. It’s a scratch. Hey, guy, can you just take us back to her house? In the Sunset.”

The driver obediently flipped on his blinker and I lurched over the front seat. “No. San Francisco General.”

He flipped his blinker in the other direction.

“Lawson, I’m fine.”

“You’re delirious! We need to call the cops. Did we get anything on the perp?”

Alex pushed me back with his good hand and a slight smile. “You’re delirious. The perp? Didn’t I tell you no more Law and Order?” He reached for me, fingered my elbow. “You’ve got a heck of a scratch there.”

I glanced down, shrugged him off, and pointed to the piddly-looking collection of scratches on my arm. “That is nothing. That”—I gestured to his gaping wound—“is serious.”

“Lawson—”

I touched Alex’s hand, and felt his blood on my fingertips. I felt the tears burning behind my eyes. “But you’re going to bleed out.”

Alex put both hands firmly on my shoulders and stared me in the eye, his an intense, piercing blue. “Lawson, I am not going to bleed out. I am not”—he glanced over the seat and then back at me, dropping his voice—“a normal person.”

I don’t know if it was divine intervention, angelic persuasion or the post-mustard drunkenness of a Giants win, but I believed him instantly and nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Right.”

“So no hospital?” the cab driver wondered.

“No, no.” I glanced back at Alex. “It’s not as bad as I thought it was.”

Alex kept a firm grip on his shoulder as I pushed open the door of the apartment building. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“It’s going to be fine.” His tongue dragged across his bottom lip and I cursed myself for feeling so wildly attracted to this sexy, bleeding man.

“Come upstairs.”

I held the apartment door open for Alex and watched Nina go from prone to bolt upright on the couch, an InStyle magazine falling onto the floor, her nostrils flaring. “Who’s bleeding?” she asked without turning around.

Alex paled and took a step back, ramming into me. I shoved around him. “Alex. And he’s going to be fine. Is the first aid kit still under the sink?”

He grabbed my elbow as I tried to step away. “Is she going to—?”

“Eat you? No.” Nina stood in front of us, offered me the first aid kit. While I was impressed by her vampire speed, Alex still seemed unconvinced that he wasn’t about to be a vamp snack.

“And Vlad is out with the fang gang, burning copies of True Blood or something. So what happened?”

“We were mugged. Take off your shirt.”

Alex’s eyes nervously trailed to Nina and she rolled hers. “Fine!” She stomped toward her room. “But just so you know, if I were going to eat you, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“Good to know.”

“Hemophobe.” She slammed the door.

“Shirt off.”

Alex did as he was told and I went from Florence Nightingale to Jenna Jameson. My mouth watered at the smooth contours of his chest and my body ached, remembering how long it had been since I had seen half-naked man flesh ... in the flesh. Now it was twice in one night.

“Is something wrong?”

I wagged my head and busied myself soaking a washrag under the faucet and lining up a roll of gauze and surgical tape. “Okay, move your hand.”

The blood was smeared from the edge of Alex’s collarbone and thickened into a dark red band around his bicep. The thin edges of his tattoo faded into the blood and I used the damp rag to gently wipe it away, careful not to aggravate the open wound. I wiped a little more and Alex’s naked skin peeked through, a healthy pink. More skin, more pink. I grabbed his palm and scrubbed that, then frowned, taking a step back.

“Where is all this blood coming from?” I snatched the discarded Barry Bonds T-shirt he had been wearing and poked my fingers through the neat, blood-soaked hole at the shoulder.

Alex bit his bottom lip. “I told you.”

“But it’s—gone?”

Alex rung out the rag, wetted it again, and scrubbed his arm. He turned on the coffee-table lamp and beckoned me to look closer. I squinted, and saw a five-inch scar in his skin. It was clean, slightly puckered—a pale remembrance of a slice.

I touched it gently, my fingertips gliding over the glossy, raised surface. “It’s healed.”

He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Kind of an above-world perk.”

“Right.” I cleared my throat and stumbled toward my bedroom. “Let me get your clothes—uh, your shirt. It’s—it’s late.”

I picked up his sweater. It was cold from sitting on my desk, just under my open window all night. I pressed the soft fabric to my face, held it against my nose and breathed, but the scent, the warm, comforting scent of Alex, was gone. All I could get was the distant scent of the ocean on the night air. I felt a lump rise in my throat, felt the frustratingly familiar sting of tears starting to form behind my eyes.

He ate hot dogs. He stepped on popcorn. He slurped when he drank his beer, he howled at the umpire, he slung his arm around my shoulders and belted out “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with the thousands of other fans in the stadium.

But he wasn’t like them.

I glanced down at the scratch on my arm, red and puckered and angry, throbbing with a gentle, warm heat and so distinctly alive.

“Lawson?” Alex called from the living room.

“I’ll be right there.”